Dead Men Don’t Stand Up

“This’ll be over soon, kid.”

“How much is my dad paying to get me back?”

“Half a mil.  Not bad.”

“We don’t get along, me and my dad. I’m surprised he’s payin’ ya’ anything.”

The Kid sat on a gravestone, jammed his hands into his jacket pockets.

“…I didn’t get along with my pop either,” said the Kidnapper.  “My brother Billy, he’s the Golden Boy. Me, I’m a Black Sheep. Got any brothers?”

“Huh-uh.”

“Be glad it’s just your asshole dad ya’ gotta deal with. In my house, it was always two against one.”

“Musta’ sucked.”

The Kidnapper put Bic to Marlbro.  Hoovered the filter.

“You know it was nothin’ personal, us kidnappin’ ya’. We got an anonymous tip your dad’s a drunk and passes out every night by 9:30. We figured it’d be an easy score.”

“You grab any kid who nets ya’ a big payday?”

“I guess so, yeah.”

“How’d you get stuck waitin’ for the ransom?”

“Billy says he’s the brains and I’m the muscle. And this is a job for the muscle.”

“Sounds like a good deal for Billy.”

“Here comes your pop. Think he brought any cops?”

“No chance. He hates ‘em.”

“That’s what our tipster told us.  Looks like he’s got the bag. It’s been nice doin’ business with ya’, kid.”

The Kidnapper reached for his gun.  Just as he realized it was missing, he felt a hot sting in his gut. It tore through his lower back. He looked down to see the Kid’s fingers curled around the grip of a smoking revolver.

“I was your anonymous tipster, retard. I needed quick cash and the old man outta the way. So, I’m gonna shoot ‘im and take the bag. The cops’ll figure your brother killed you and my dad and got away.  Pretty good, huh?”

The Kidnapper collapsed face first into fresh laid dirt.

“It’s nothin’ personal, me killin’ ya’. Just an easy score. Too bad your asshole brother’s not layin’ here instead a’ you, though. Shoulda’ stood up for yourself when you had the chance.”